Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(6)

I respect that.

I pocket the photo and watch Cassie’s mother sob on her front porch for so long I have to turn away.

The idea that someone doesn’t have their family fucking guts me.

If they don’t come home, I don’t come home. It’s that simple. A motto I live by even if I haven’t done right by it in the past.

My gut clenches, but I push through the hollow ache.

“Nothing,” I say.

Together, Richter and I trek across the frozen lawn toward a group of police officers. The howl of the wind and low conversation are all that can be heard. My SAR dog, Keena, trots impatiently next to me, ready to get to work.

Once Runaway Ranch became fully operable over five years ago, I joined the local sheriff’s Montana Search and Rescue K9 unit. I needed something to do other than boss around my brothers. Besides that, free time isn’t in my vocabulary. Eating up my days and nights is all I want to do to keep my mind off the past.

Despite its small-town status, Resurrection gets its fair share of search and rescue cases. Lost hikers. Drunk idiots. Dangerous stunts. And I’d take all of them any day of the week over a kid.

As we walk, Keena carefully matches my pace. I flip the collar of my jacket up against the gusts of frigid wind tunneling over the mountain. A typical January winter morning in Montana. Sunshine and ice glints off the trees while shadows dance along the evergreens. Resurrection’s beauty takes your breath away. So does the cold. But the windchill doesn’t faze me.

After years spent in hellish conditions overseas, I’m used to the elements. Zone out and focus on what’s in front of you. Don’t miss a thing. You miss, someone dies.

I scan the icy horizon. Clock entry, exit points. On the trailer’s porch, there’s a fridge and a windchime frozen in time. A frying pan sits outside, beers in the ice bank.

I stop.

“When did she go missing again?” I ask.

“About an hour ago,” Richter says. “She was playing on the porch. Parents didn’t think she’d actually leave.”

I clamp my teeth together and shake my head. Playing on the porch in the dead of winter. Fucking ridiculous.

The crunch of gravel beneath my boots fills the silence.

“We got people in the woods.” Richter passes me a light pink sock of Cassie’s. “Hoping if she’s out there, she stays put.” A search team calls her name through the thick grove of trees, and I walk briskly ahead. I want to hurry this up. In a missing person’s case, especially a missing kid, time is always of the essence.

“Long as she’s got some shelter,” I grunt.

“Long as.”

With a groan, I sink into a squat beside Keena. My shoulders ease a fraction as I place a palm on her head and look the Belgian Malinois in her eyes.

“You ready, girl?”

Keena’s one of the most intelligent dogs I’ve ever known. A super guard dog, and command trained for voice or hand signals, her climbing and jumping ability never ceases to amaze. Curious, alert and endlessly loyal, Keena doesn’t have an aggressive bone in her body. She came to me as a rescue when I was busy training K9 dogs to rehome on Runaway Ranch, and I kept her. We were both in a rough patch and bonded. She trained me back into a human.

She’s the best dog in the world. She’s got my back and I’ve got hers.

I rough a hand in her glossy black and brown coat. Watch the determination spark in her black eyes as I pull out Cassie’s sock.

This is why I love dogs. They’re black and white. There’s no gray or ambiguity in life. You give them a job, they do it.

Me—I live for the gray.

“All right,” I murmur to Keena. “Let’s find this kid.”

Her ears prick. Her nose trembles. All the telltale signs of a damn good SAR dog.

I stand, and Richter and I watch as Keena moves toward the house. Frowning, I blink at her unexpected trajectory. I had expected her to make a move for the woods.

Keena, nose working overtime, climbs the porch steps and stops next to the fridge. Her loud whine sounds in the crisp early morning air.

Fuck.

Richter and I both make a mad dash to the fridge. It’s old, but the door frame isn’t frozen shut like I had expected. Gripping the handle, I wrench it open.

And there she is.

A tiny girl with blonde pigtails swaddled in a purple parka. Seeing us, she lets out a weak cry from her rosebud mouth and rubs her eyes.

“How’d the hell she get in there?” Richter blasts, looking pale.

I grab her up in my arms and hold her tight against my chest. Her small heart hammers next to mine.

“We found you, Cassie,” I murmur, cupping her head as she wails. “You’re safe, sweetheart. Baby girl, breathe,” I whisper into her clammy golden curls.

Sniffling, she lifts her head and gives me a toothy little smile. My heart wrenches. Unable to stand it, I pass her to Richter, who passes her to her mother.

“We didn’t have to go far,” I tell him, gazing at the trailer.

“Fucking backyard,” Richter says, sounding amazed.

Backyards. Most crimes happen in your own backyard. Right under your nose.

I’d call it a goddamn great day that we found Cassie this easy. Most missing persons are hikers who, depending on the time of year, succumb to the elements. Being a local doesn’t mean you’re immune to the Montana wilderness.